Free Death of a Toy Soldier by Barbara Early Page A

knickknacks and figurines. No toys among them, though. I thought I recognized an old Hummel amid a bunch of tacky thrift-store fodder.
    When I turned around, the woman eyed me suspiciously.
    “Sy was quite a collector,” I managed.
    She continued to eye me as she chewed.
    The bad thing about my location by the punch bowl was that it left me vulnerable to attack from the rear. Mrs. Wallace came up to the table, effectively trapping me. She dippedher chin and greeted the woman standing by me. “Meredith.” Friendly group.
    She then focused that familiar glare on me. “Hello, Elizabeth.” She straightened the napkins and used one to sop up several stray drops of punch. I’m sure she assumed I’d been the one who dribbled. After she’d done a thorough job, she said, “The table is an antique, of course. Has been in the family for a number of years. I’ve always admired it.”
    “Mother has, too,” Meredith said, then paused to swallow, “and the matching hutch, which I believe Uncle Sy had promised to her.”
    Mrs. Wallace blinked, as if she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Well, it would be a shame to separate them. I’m sure it’s all in Sy’s will.”
    “If he had a will,” Meredith said.
    I was in no-man’s-land in the family squabble for Uncle Sy’s worldly goods.
    “I was just remarking that Sy was quite a collector,” I said.
    “Is that why you’re here, Elizabeth?” Mrs. Wallace said. “I’ll make sure you’re notified when we have the estate sale.”
    “That’s not what I meant,” I said.
    “She was admiring the Hummel,” Meredith said.
    “The Hummel will have to be appraised,” Mrs. Wallace said.
    “I don’t collect Hummel, and I’m not here for an advance peek at the estate sale.” Although if the toys I’d seen were from Uncle Sy’s collection, I’d keep an eye on the notices. I figured this might be the best time to scout for information. “I did hear that your Uncle Sy collected toys.”
    “Probably,” Meredith said. “He seemed to have collected everything else.”
    “Who told you that?” Mrs. Wallace asked me. She glanced at her son, and then used her X-ray vision to render my skull invisible and probe my very thoughts. Or maybe it only felt that way. “Valuable toys?”
    “I don’t know the value.” That much was true. “And I’m not looking to buy. I heard he was leaving a toy collection to the museum.” I left out the part about having seen the collection, carried into our shop by a man now dead.
    “I don’t know if I’ve ever seen any toys here,” Mrs. Wallace said. “Are you sure about this? Who did you hear it from?”
    “I . . .” No way I was going to put Jillian on the hook for spilling the beans. “A man came into the shop.” I proceeded to describe the dead man, from his scrubs to his parka to his tanned, pockmarked face. “I didn’t catch his name. I gather he was acquainted with Sy.”
    “I don’t know who that could be,” Mrs. Wallace said.
    “Maybe Tonya’s boy, Peter?” Meredith suggested.
    Mrs. Wallace vigorously shook her head. “Not a single pockmark on him. Peter’s father was a dermatologist. I think they tied Peter’s hands to the bedposts when he had the chicken pox so he wouldn’t scratch. And he certainly wouldn’t be tan.”
    “One thing you can say about this family,” Meredith said, “we have excellent collagen.”
    “I suppose that if we do come across any toys, we might be able to make a deal,” Mrs. Wallace said.
    A better businesswoman would have handed her a card. I merely shrugged.
    “Sy was a bit of a hoarder,” Mrs. Wallace said. “It’s going to take a lot of work to clear all this stuff out.”
    “I suppose that will have to wait until an executor is named,” Meredith said. “Of course, that could take even longer if no will is found and it has to go through probate. It, uh, might be in our best interest to work together.”
    Mrs. Wallace narrowed her eyes.
    Meredith